The Lip O'erhanging the Abyss
by my-echo
Summary: A brief interlude between Cathy and Heathcliff, during one of their walks on the moor. Completely canon, no bringing them together. Passionate arguing, one might say.


Isabella had long since gone her way, childish pout upon her faintly sensual lips, her body now a mere speck—a black dot upon the moor.

The surly companion turned toward the object of his lifelong affections, a dark eye betraying the struggle.

Cathy pretended not to notice, playing with the ribbon on her hat, the straw apparel looking like a discarded child's toy flung behind her back and kept close only by the satin string by which it hung.

"You know," he said, softly, menacingly, as was his way, not finishing what he was about to say. By God, he could make the most innocent phrase sound maleficent if he chose—"You know…," he said again, stopping once more as if to collect himself, keep his wild nature in check.

Cathy shivered. "Yes," she said, in a whisper that was more like a faint hiss. It was a cold whisper, one that made him lift his foot to take a step away from her, but the foot paused in mid-air, and he continued walking, a little faster, passion given away by his gait, Hell's fire in his gypsy eyes.

"Cath—" She turned, not letting him know what daggers her old child's name sent through her very breast, and he the murderer. Fires flashed in her grown child-woman's eyes, but these were borne of anger, not wholly of the desires that, it was evident, could consume him at a whim.

"You cannot…" he said, his breath becoming more pronounced by the minute, his teeth clenching, his voice earnestly violent. "You cannot love that puling, whining weakling, that milksop that hangs upon your every word—"

Cathy gave a cry and slapped him, hard.

The playmate of her childhood flinched and clapped a hand to the reddening spot, an occurrence unseen and unheard of for the silent, glowering, restrained boy she had known and the man she knew now—but then it had been she who had bestowed the unaffectionate blow, and merely a look from her, a glance, a sharp word, all or one could reduce him to a penitent beast, caged and pacing, but caged nonetheless.

His teeth ground. "You dare raise your hand to me?" he snarled. "You may go to the devil, Catherine!"

It was Cathy's turn to flinch, violently. He never called her Catherine.

He turned it into a taunt. "Catherine Linton, the obedient wife. When were you ever so docile? It sickens me to see you fawning on each other, like lapdogs in heat." A self-satisfied, vehemently vengeful smirk-sneer was on his lips, his mouth twisted with it. He was hard and cruel, her beast-boy turned man. Still a beast—more so, now. He had been gentle with her in his youth. Never had he uttered a cross word to her until the advent of Edgar, and even then…

Cathy's mouth was pinched, white. "How dare you?" she whispered. "You leave me—you did—I might not have married him—if you hadn't."

"Liar," he said. "You told Nell you would, say what she might, in spite of your own assertions that I was part of your very soul. And you said that it was because I was penniless, remember? Because your brother—that drunken, witless dog--had brought me _so low._" His face darkened, rage burning, barely in check by his iron-clad will.

The remembrance of her thoughtless words, spoken to Nelly without the knowledge that he heard, that he listened, was enough to make her blushing cheeks turn white.

"I went, Cath," he said, "because you drove me to it. I ran…I admit it! I ran to wealth, to a way to make you love me!"

"I did," she whispered without thinking. "Loved you, Heathcliff—as if you never had the wits to see it! But—"

"Enough to desert me for the bejeweled Mama's child, the spoiled brat who could not work a day, or an hour, if he tried! The pale worm, the flaxen-haired beauty! Yes, Cathy, you must have loved me, truly!" He threw back his head and laughed, roared with laughter, but there was no mirth, no warmth. It was a cold, wolfish laugh, one that made the wind seem harsher, more biting, and Cathy held her arms around herself as a shield from him.

"Do you love me now?" he said, the sneer once more upon his face. "Do you? Would you come with me if I asked you? Ride the winds and cross through Gimmerton, never to return?"

Cathy quailed. The offer…could it be serious? He was joking, of course…no. Heathcliff wanted her, wanted to consume her until she was nothing but a glowing spark inside his heart, her body burnt away. She could not resign herself to that fate, be it ever so tempting—nay, nigh unbearably delicious.

"Heathcliff," she said. "Heathcliff."

He grasped her arms, his lower lip quivering, his burning dark eyes half-closed and chiseling away every ounce of resistance.

"No," she said. "No. I cannot…I _will _not. Such a capricious creature you are!"

He released her, stepping back. "I am not to be trifled with, Cathy. You of all people in the world know…"

"Yes," she whispered. "But when did you stand up to _me_?"

His eyes went ashen, his soul seeming to flail. "Devil-sprite," he whispered. "Angel."

"And you the demon, I suppose," she said flippantly, beginning to walk once more, her peripheral eye trained upon his insupportably appealing form, the man she would have traded for Edgar in an instant if he had more of Edgar's sweetness, his gentle nature.

No…that was precisely why she loved him. His rugged wildness, his unreclaimed pitilessness, his fiery dominance that yielded ever so often. Edgar was dependent upon her, not she upon him. Heathcliff was her equal, her very being.

_"Nelly…I am Heathcliff."_

Eyes closed, shaking the memory away.

The pillar stood, eyes fixed upon his would-be paramour.

"Never," she said.

Jaw clenched imperceptibly, a vein bulging in his temple, purple and then skin again. "I would tell you," he said, "how bewitching you are with your hair blowing in the moor-winds, your eyes flashing—but I won't."

"Let's talk no more about it, Heathcliff," she begged, her hands grasping his well-muscled arm—by Heaven, she _would _not think of it!—"We're friends, dear friends, and that's all we can be for today, or tomorrow, or…"

"Stop, fiend," he said. "The devil take you…"

"I can't bear to lose you," she said. "But we _must_ be merely friends. Be content, Heathcliff, or desert me forever."

He gasped for breath, like a fish flopping on land. "She is mad," he breathed to no one. "She must be, to speak so." He turned to her again. "As you wish it," he said between clenched teeth. "Mark me, though…"

"No more," she said, and he remained silent the next mile back to the Grange, the journey tainted, the sunny day spoiled, passion smouldering, never burnt out.


End file.
